


"Paper Hearts"

by amo_amare



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Community: femslash12, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-02
Updated: 2012-12-02
Packaged: 2017-11-20 01:15:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/579695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amo_amare/pseuds/amo_amare
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What they each wanted was a friend. What they found...</p>
            </blockquote>





	"Paper Hearts"

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Selenay](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selenay/gifts).



> Writtern for selenay, for the [Femslash12](http://femslash12.dreamwidth.org/) exchange.
> 
> Events take place between Series 1 and 2.

_Dear Lady Sybil,_

_I wanted to write to you to express my heartfelt thanks for all the help you gave me when I was searching for a job. I never would have found this position if it were not for you: I don’t know that I would have even mustered up the courage to apply._

_The job was very hard at first: much like my first days at Downton! I can’t tell you how many times I wanted to give up, and how often I thought myself a fool for giving up such a good place as the one I had with your family. I very nearly did quit, once or twice. But when I thought about you, and all you’d gone through to get me here, I knew I couldn’t let you down._

_The work is still very hard, but I must confess: I love it. My days are never dull, and I’m getting better at my job all the time. I feel like a real professional woman, and my parents are so very proud. I have you to thank for all of it._

_I hope you don’t find it impertinent, me writing to you. The last time we met, you said you’d like to hear how I was getting on once I was settled in. Maybe you were just being kind, but I did want you to know how grateful I am for all you’ve done._

_My sincerest thanks,_

_Gwen Dawson_

 

It’s only a short little note sent with the morning post, but the words are glad tidings for Lady Sybil. Gwen’s departure was more than two months past, and she’s long given up the hope of hearing from her again. Why should Gwen feel ties to the house in which she’d served as drudge when now she had a career, and a life of her own?

She’s begun to feel foolish that she even still thought of the former housemaid now and again. Just weeks after Gwen had left, Sybil had mentioned her name at breakfast. There was an advertisement in the paper for a correspondence course in typing, and she’d remarked to Mary that she wondered how Gwen was getting on. Mary’d had no idea who she was talking about, and had laughed to discover it was ‘only a maid’ to whom her sister referred.

Only a maid, perhaps, but the closest Sybil’s had to a friend in years. Helping Gwen to find her job was more fun than all the ladies’ meetings and dancing lessons she was usually expected to fill her day with. It was so exciting to think that while she was reading the papers, searching for news about the women’s suffrage movements and debating her family about women’s rights, Gwen was out there in the world, making a life for herself, and living her own dreams. Sharing in those dreams with her, even just a little, had been such a special time.

That night, she excused herself early from the family after dinner, and sat down in her room to write out a reply.

 

_Dearest Gwen,_

_You cannot know how happy I was to receive a letter from you! I had been thinking about you and wondering how you liked your new job: I had begun to worry that things must have been very horrid after all, and that you could not bring yourself to write about it! I am very glad to hear that you are doing well, and that you are enjoying your work._

_I find it rather exciting, actually; I can’t help but think that I should like to have a job. I know my family would be scandalized, but why should they? The third daughter of a lord has no purpose; I don’t see why I shouldn’t be allowed to make myself useful in some way._

_Since I shan’t be allowed, though, you must let me live vicariously through you! Do tell me about your new life in the city: where do you live? What do you do when you are not working? I want to hear everything!_

_Do please feel free to write to me as often as you like. I only receive letters from my Aunt Rosamund, and from my grandmother in New York. I would very much like to hear from you as often as you please!_

_My warmest regards,_

_Sybil_

 

She very nearly walks right by the letter lying on the table in the front hall. The handwriting is unfamiliar: Gwen only receives letters from her mother and father, and the occasional brief note from Anna when she can find the time, and this letter, with its thick, expensive paper and elegant, even handwriting could not have come from either source. Only when she catches her name among the loops and whorls does she stop dead in her tracks to stare. Tentatively, she reaches out a hand to trace the edge of the creamy white paper.

And jumps, when one of the other girls in the boarding house sneaks up behind her.

“Look at you, getting letters from the gentry! My my, didn’t realize we had such an important lady stayin’ in the house.”

She mumbles a quick denial, and scurries off to her room to read the letter in private.

The Lady Sybil wants Gwen to write to her.

_Dear Lady Sybil,_

_It is so kind of you to write to me. I hardly know what I should say to you in reply; my life must seem rather dull compared to yours._

_To answer your questions: I live in a little boarding house on Bankshill Road. It is owned by a widow named Mrs. Hill, and she is the sternest, most mean-looking woman I’ve ever met. I’d face the wrath of Mrs. Hughes and Mrs. Patmore together on any day to avoid the lashing of her tongue! But she keeps a clean house, and doesn’t tolerate any impropriety, and so in the end we girls feel nice and safe here._

_There are ten girls who live in the house - two apiece to each of the five rooms. I share my room with a girl named Alice. She works just down the road from the telephone company and keeps the same hours I do, so we walk together, to and from work, and often eat our lunch together. She’s quiet and often very serious, but she’s nice and good company. Most of the other girls in the house are also very nice, but living all squashed together as we do, some are more concerned with the affairs of others than they ought to be. Still, it’s no different than my days at Downton; nothing to do when you’ve no money or time to go out but gossip about your neighbors!_

_When I do have money and time, I like to go with Alice and some of the other girls to the music hall to see the shows. We can sit in the back of the gallery for just pennies. Alice likes to hear the love songs, but I think my favorite are the dancers and the juggling acts._

_I do hope I haven’t gone on too much and bored you. Thank you again for writing to me._

_Sincerely,_

_Gwen Dawson_

 

To think that she’d find _Gwen’s_ life dull! Over the next few weeks, Sybil waits for her letters, which start to grow more frequent and more detailed as Gwen grows more comfortable with the correspondence. It takes weeks of prodding for Sybil to convince her that any and every detail Gwen is willing to share would be welcome. Then the letters start pouring like water from the pump.

So many details she has to share, too: things Sybil never would have thought to ask. How Gwen sorely wanted a new ribbon for her best hat, but it would have to wait, because she was in dire need of a new pair of shoes. How she’d been scolded at her job for spilling a pot of ink; a clumsy gaffe she never would make if she hadn’t been exhausted from spending half the night mending her last decent pair of stockings. How her face burned when the boys from the company stood outside the office door and made crude comments about the secretaries.

It was a window to another world: one that somehow seemed more bright and colorful than Sybil’s own. 

For her own part, she does her best to fill her letters to Gwen. At first, beyond begging the girl to write to her with stories about her new life as a working woman, she has no idea what to write. It seems silly to talk about dinners and dress fittings which, after all, are all the same. Gwen asks for news of Downton, but Sybil can’t bear to talk about Mary’s endless parade of suitors, or Edith’s equally endless jealousy. 

The people Gwen really wants to hear after, Sybil knows nothing about. Gwen asks about Mrs. Patmore’s vision, Mrs. Hughes rheumatism, and Mr. Carson’s nerves. Sybil can only repeat what they tell her, which she knows is less than the whole truth. The moment she sets foot below stairs, the servants become stiff and uncomfortable. She can hear the laughter and the clatter of dishes as she makes her way down, but when she enters the kitchen, all noise ceases and all movement stops. Mr. Carson answers her questions patiently and indulgently while the rest of them stand with their backs to the wall and stare.

The days when she used to laugh with Gwen, and calm the maid’s fears, and bolster her courage to go on and fight another day - they seem ages away. She only knows they existed when little glimpses of their old familiarity start creeping back into Gwen’s letters.

_I’m afraid I shall have to say goodbye now. I have to blow out the candle, as Alice is complaining about the light._

Oh, to be Alice - the girl who is there to watch the flicker of the flame dance through Gwen’s green eyes while she bends her head over the writing desk, when Sybil may only touch the paper her friend’s fingers once touched.

The link of hand to pen to paper to hand is just not enough.

 

_Dear Sybil,_

_I suppose I cannot put it off any longer; I thought for certain you were not being serious when you mentioned visiting me, but since you’ve repeated the request, I must be convinced that you mean it!_

_Of course I would like for you to visit me. Please don’t think that I wouldn’t like to see you! It’s only that I am nervous for you to come. I know you’ll say that I’m being silly, and I know I am. It’s just that you’re a Lady. There, I’ve said it! That is the great beast of a thing I’m afraid to say! Not just that I’ll not know what to do with you when you’re here, but that you’ll have to manage all the stares and silly comments from the girls in the house who like to tease me for thinking I’m above myself, just because I have a noble lady for a friend._

_In any case, I feel better now that I’ve warned you. If you’d still like to come, please do! I have Monday afternoons to myself; we can meet at the tea shop in Mabley Park. Then afterward, you can come by the house, and I’ll show you where I live, since you seem so keen to see it. I will confess I still can’t imagine why!_

_Do write me to let me know if you’d still like to come._

_Yours,_

_Gwen._

 

Sybil can’t write the reply fast enough. Right away, she tells Branson she’ll be needing the car that afternoon, and makes up a story for her father about some charity meeting she’ll be attending in town. She could have told him she was meeting a friend for tea - of course she could have. A part of her was bursting to talk about Gwen. Growing up with two sisters who were only interested in themselves, only being allowed to play with children her parents considered to be of “their station”, she’d never known a friendship like this. She knew it was a silly thing to say when Gwen used to be the one to make her bed and carry the coal for her fire, but - well, to Sybil, they felt like equals.

The idea would have been absurd to the rest of her family, and so she didn’t tell them. _It’s better this way_ , she thought: having this secret felt like having a life of her own. Having Gwen all to herself made their friendship all the more special.

*****

Every head in the tea house turns to look at her when she enters. Perhaps it’s just her imagination; perhaps they aren’t staring, but just glancing up with interest at the latest patron to walk in. Whatever they’re thinking, Sybil is sure she is a fool for ever thinking that she could blend in; her plainest dress looks like a ball gown compared to the muted colors and mended frocks of the other patrons.

 _Never mind_ , she whispers to herself before smiling at the hostess. _It isn’t them I’m here to see._

The hostess shows her to the best table at the front of the house. The table is sat next to a large, sunny window so Sybil can watch the people walking by while she waits. She’s watching when Gwen turns the corner and starts walking toward the tea shop. She’s wearing the red suit Sybil loaned her for her first job interview, and insisted that she keep when she landed this job. Her cheeks are flushed, and wisps of hair trail behind her from beneath her matching hat. She’s walking quickly, stepping hastily around the shoppers who pause to look inside the shop windows. 

Sybil smiles in anticipation.

*****

The first minutes of the reunion are painfully awkward. Though they’ve been writing to each for months, Gwen hasn’t seen Sybil’s face since she left Downton. It’s entirely different to see someone and to speak to them in person, rather than write to them in a letter.

And people are looking - of course they are! Sybil is so lovely, and her clothing so fine; she’s like a rose among the dandelions. 

Gwen knows she shouldn’t care, that people will always look, but she can’t help but imagine what they must be saying to themselves. 

_Who does she think she is, bringing a lady to a place like this? No better than she ought to be. Ideas above her station. Doesn’t know her place._

Some of the voices even sound like Gwen’s own mother, though she isn’t here.

Sybil, so lively and so full of gaiety, tries to stumble forward with the conversation. Her genteel manners have trained her to carry on in any social situation. Gwen wants to smile at her, and share her jokes; she’s watching herself, so stiff and uncomfortable. Sybil must be so disappointed, having come all this way just to stare at a silent partner across the table of a dingy, second-rate tea house. The thought makes Gwen even more self-conscious.

Finally, the tea is served, and the mood is lighter just for them having something to do with their hands. As they dab cream on scones and pour milk into tea, Gwen frets about what she will say when there’s no more food to fuss over and she’s forced to talk again. She’s so focused on worrying that she bobbles the tiny tongs that pick up the sugar and drops a great lump of it into her teacup with an audible splash.

Sybil snorts and laughs, and Gwen's face burns with shame. But when she looks up into Sybil’s eyes, she sees no mockery in her smile; just warmth and friendship. Gwen smiles back.

Everything is much easier after that.

*****

Tea is lovely, and the pleasure of Gwen’s company delightful, but this is the part Sybil has most looked forward to: seeing her friend’s house where she lives with the other girls.

Over the months, Sybil has drawn every detail about the place out of her friend: the color of the carpets, and the shape of the gas jets on the hallway stairs. She knows the layout of the place as if she’s lived here herself: Mrs. Hill has the ground floor with a little room at the back for Margaret and Esther. Violet and Clara, Agatha and Jenny, and Alice and Gwen have the first floor, and Mary and Anne have a little room all by themselves on the second.

Still, her first real glimpse of the place is thrilling!

“How exciting!” she exclaims as they walk up the steps. “Living on your own!”

Gwen blushes, and ducks her head. “Hardly on me own! I live with Mrs. Hill and nine other girls.”

Sybil smiles, and jostles her arm. “Well, you know what I mean. No parents around to tell you what to do, making decisions for yourself...”

Gwen shrugs. “I suppose so. Well, anyway, you better come inside! They’ll find it strange if we just hang about the front steps.”

As promised, most of Gwen’s housemates are there to meet Sybil. Agatha and Mary work late in a cloth factory, but the rest of the girls have made certain to be around when Gwen brings her Grand Lady Friend over to the house to visit.

The awkwardness returns momentarily when none of the girls know how to speak to a lady with a title, no matter how many times she insists they call her “Sybil”. Jenny saves the day by telling everyone a funny story about a rather persistent squirrel stealing her beau’s sandwich when he took her to the park for lunch that afternoon, and once everyone is laughing, the mood is lightened, and Gwen finally feels like she can breathe again.

Until Sybil leans in and whispers in her ear, “Gwen, aren’t you going to show me your room?”

*****

Climbing the creaky wooden steps to the bedroom Gwen shares with her friend Alice, Sybil feels butterflies set loose in her stomach. 

Gwen opens the door slowly, shyly, and after just a moment’s hesitation invites Sybil to enter the small, sparsely-furnished room. She starts to apologize that it isn’t much, but Sybil stops her.

“It’s perfect! Just how I pictured it.” While Gwen watches in wonder, Sybil runs her hands over the whitewashed plaster walls, eyes sweeping every corner, taking everything in. “This must be your bed!” she announces triumphantly. “I recognize the quilt your mother made for you: it looks just as you described it. What did you say the pattern was?”

“Honeycomb.” Gwen answers her quietly, surprised that her friend remembers the description she gave of her quilt.

Sybil grins at her, and gestures to the bed. “May I sit?”

“Of course! Oh, where are my manners... I’m sorry there’s not a chair, but as you can see, there isn’t much room...”

Shaking her head, Sybil sits and pats the space next to her. Obediently, Gwen crosses the room and sits beside her.

“Gwen, this has been such a wonderful afternoon: I’m so glad I could come and visit you!”

“I’m really glad you came, too.” Gwen smiles, but it is very aware of how straight and rigid she is sitting on her own bed, while Sybil looks calm, composed, and completely natural.

Sybil keeps smiling, waiting for Gwen to go on.

Nervously, Gwen plucks at her mother’s tiny stitches where they run across the fabric of her quilt.

“Sybil: I’m so glad to find it was the same. Being with you, I mean. That is - I was afraid it would be different...” The words don’t sound right, and she wishes she could drop right through the floor, but Sybil is nodding along with her.

“I was afraid of the same thing! I’ve so enjoyed your letters, and getting to know about your new life here, living on your own. I was so afraid that when I saw you, I just wouldn’t fit with who you had become.” Sybil’s voice is full of emotion, and she reaches out to clasp Gwen’s arm as she speaks. “I am so glad to see that you are just the same; that we are just the same together. A good team!”

Sybil’s hand is on Gwen’s wrist, and Gwen turns her palm upward to clasp it in her own. She smiles wryly, before adding, “Except when we’re getting our cart stuck in the mud...”

Her boldness is rewarded by a brilliant smile from Sybil, who squeezes her hand in response.

“But wasn’t that so much fun!” she says. “We were so sure we were caught, the both of us, but we got away with it. Aside from today, with you, that was the last time I ever felt so alive.”

Sybil’s hand is still clasping Gwen’s. She doesn’t know why, but suddenly, her heart is beating very fast. She can feel a flush creeping across her face; a flush she can see mirrored in Gwen’s cheeks.

Gwen opens her mouth to say something, but no words come out. She looks so lovely, with her pink lips parted, and her eyes so wide, like pools of liquid glass.

Then Sybil closes her own eyes. It’s an instinct: she’s leaning forward, but she hardly knows why. All she can feel is the beat of her own heart, and then Gwen’s warm breath just before Sybil presses their lips together. The heat that started as two points in the center of each of her cheeks erupts and pours through her chest like honey.

She opens her eyes just a fraction of a second before Gwen opens hers. She watches Gwen’s pale, amber lashes flutter, and then Sybil can see herself in the dark center of the other girl’s eyes. She can feel Gwen’s heart beat as fast as her own through the fingers she still presses against Gwen’s wrist.

They’re both awoken from their shared dream with a start.

“Gwen!” 

Footsteps on the staircase accompany the shout. It’s Mrs. Hill, Gwen’s landlady.

“Gwen, there’s a car waiting for the Lady Sybil...”

In that second’s interruption, they’ve moved just a fraction apart on the bed; Sybil has dropped Gwen’s wrist. Both red-faced and breathing hard, they stare at each other in wonder.

Sybil is the first to speak. “You will keep writing to me, won’t you?”

Gwen can barely find her voice to reply. “Always.”


End file.
